


honeybee

by Thomas_Fooll



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: AU, Blow Jobs, Brian fucking loves crying in this one, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Play, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Hand Jobs, I also blame myself, I blame fishcola, Loud Sex, M/M, Mature Competent Professional Gays, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Overuse of italics, Pomona spin-off, Praise Kink, Rope Play (kind of), Rough Sex, Temperature Play, Wax Play, Zuko being a knowing little bastard, also Castlevania video made me write this, also i have a weirdly anatomical narration style don't at me, because this is who I am now, maybe I love this cat a little bit too much but he's just too good, maybe i should've double-checked this before posting but fuck it amirite kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22455040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thomas_Fooll/pseuds/Thomas_Fooll
Summary: In which Laura mentions her being out of town for her vacation, so.Brian's nasty thoughts won't leave him alone.
Relationships: Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	honeybee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fishcola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/gifts), [A_Kvr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Kvr/gifts).



> I blame myself, but also fishcola, have I mentioned that? Also thank you A, for having the patience and letting me drag you into this.  
> This is a translation from Russian (which was also a translation of my English-speaking thoughts, but like it's really complicated so), as usual, you can read the original here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/8977767  
> Also I might have subconsciously titled this fic after their safeword in Pomona and realised it after fucking posting the original? Idk maybe.

Laura mentions that she is going to spend her vacation in Baltimore, and Brian's head is instantly filled up with treacherous thoughts that he won't be able to get rid of until Thursday. At the office for all this time he needs to always care to hold back his idiotic, obviously anticipating and dirty looks at Patrick — so much so that Jenna has to film all the videos this week. She, once again re-setting the camera before the new take instead of the one he fucked up, glances at him with some sort of soft indulgence.

Jenna's loud — louder than anyone Brian has ever known, and filming with her is just so _not like with Patrick_ , that he gets distracted and loses the train of thought just so much more often. Sometimes he catches himself thinking that, hadn't he ever met Patrick, he would absolutely try to get it going with her but now— they're good friends, and Patrick Gill absolutely ought to stay the night at his place when Laura leaves. Mainly because Brian stays at Patrick Gill's every Tuesday, and Thursday, and Friday and every third Sunday, while Patrick Gill has been to Brian's humble grungy once-two-now-three bedroom flat the boy shares with Laura and Jonah only twice in a year that has passed since Brian has unceremoniously burst into his life and settled himself comfortably in its flow, and to the lesser extent because it has never occured to Brian just what monster of an untouchable supply of ideas he had successfully suppressed in his mind before, that it was enough for his sister to mention her leaving for a week to open up the can of worms that quickly turned into a hive of buzzing with lust and distracting thoughts.

And so there's Jenna, once again re-setting the camera in between the takes — the one that he fucked up and the one that will definitely make it to the final cut — and glancing at Brian with some sort of soft indulgence in her eyes and says, her voice suddenly low: "You don't have any shame left in you, do you?"

Brian giggles nervously: "What?"

And Jenna, smiling as if it's the cutest and funniest thing she's seen, starts filming, making him successfully suppress the bare memory what's going to happen next week. That's why when during the dinner on Saturday Laura tells him that she's leaving early in the morning, he spends a good minute processing the meaning of her words. When the memory finally clicks, and Laura's words start echoing in his head, his heart plummets somewhere towards his heels, tap dancing clearly to the old tutorials on his own channel.

/ / /

Laura somehow manages to leave without waking him up and taking Jonah somewhere with herself — on the kitchen table, covered with breadcrumbs all over, there's a small crumpled note: ' _don't forget to feed Zuko you garbagehole!_ '

Zuko sits right there beside it, lazily showing off his ability to wink with both eyes independently.

"Okay, what?" Brian asks, blushing rapidly. He wants to curse his brain for even thinking that Zuko might know what's coming, knowing perfectly well that even if the cat knows, he doesn't understand, but — Zuko's face radiates a hint of so incredibly familiar indulgence (the one that Jenna's eyes had on Wednesday) that he barely fights the urge to barricade himself off from that monochromatic monster in his room and never leave it again until Laura comes back on Saturday.

'Hey, everybody has left for a vacation and I'm alone?

Wanna stay the night?'

He proceeds to make a shopping list and spends the next two and a half hours wandering through IKEA, and then three more at some other concomitant shops, coming back home with quite an assortment:

— candles (thirty huge tall ones because he's a responsible adult who has a nicely balanced monthy budget);

— cigarettes;

— spaghetti;

— lube;

— ropes (because all of the above they have at Patrick's place, and now he has to make all of those one-time investments out of his tiny budget (because he's a responsible adult who now owns thirty huge candles, primarily));

cooks some pasta, inspired and slightly lightheaded from the sweet feeling of anticipation — hey what's more sexy than feeding someone a nice warm meal?

Before Patrick's arrival he doesn't manage to do much, mainly taking his time to get ready: namely takes a shower (during which he cannot stop thinking about Patrick Gill fucking his — Brian's — pliant body into a glossy polished wooden surface of a table in the Weird Nook), brushes his teeth and picks the most idiotically floral shirt out of all the floral shirts he owns (because Patrick Gill adores all those floral shirts of his and the way they 'smooth out', in his words, on Brian's imperfect plain body). He puts candles all around the place — because he is a responsible adult and can afford thirty of those and also because electric light suddenly seems too bright for such a tiny cluttered space.

Pat Gill arrives exactly at seven o'clock, rings one short time — the way that only he can do that, making Brian question whether he even heard a bell or not. He answers the door, and his body and soul fill up with heat the moment he does so. Pat Gill greets him with his feature smile, the one that only he can physically pull off: the corners of his mouth spreading his mouth into an even line, upper lip slightly lifted in a teasing bow. Brian fights the urge to fold in half from the sensations that this simple action evokes in his stomach, but Patrick enters his flat like he belongs here, propping the boy's half-limp body against his own and pulling into a kiss before Brian's puppet-like figure collapses entirely onto the floor.

Patrick Gill's kisses are their own art form — thin stern lips, pushing against incomparably smaller and plainer Brian's, sharp spruce tongue, exploring the inside of Brian's mouth in the same possesively-discreet, calm and confident manner as Patrick's hands explore the boy's body. Patrick picks him up, propping Brian's thighs on his sides, managing to shut the front door in the process, takes him to the living room to—

Brian protests — pulls away from the kiss and puts his forehead against Patrick's, stares into his dark eyes. Their glasses clank a bit, when the metal parts scratch the glass.

"Hey."

"Hey." A smile spreads Pat's lips again. He smells of cigarettes and their favourite tea, which name is forbidden even in their casual conversations now.

"Uh, I cooked dinner, just so you know, and—" Brian shrugs in a suggestive manner.

"Oh, did I finally level up my ' _To be cared for_ ' stat?" Pat's smile gets slyer and even cunning of sorts, and Brian's heart now beats in his throat, taking up all the space in his windpipe and just above the root of his tongue. Patrick carefully puts his legs down, letting him take his hand and lead him to the already set table in the Weird Nook.

"Okay, look, I— I cooked pescatore, because I'm—" Brian sighs audibly, running his hand through his hair. Look, it's a Patrick thing, he knows this perfectly well, but he's panicking, alright? And he won't stop panicking until Patrick's strong warm body presses him into this table and— "Look, I'm a travesty of a boyfriend, I couldn't remember whether you liked white sauce or not, so—"

Patrick just keeps smiling in response, and Brian's panic spreads through his bloodstream faster, sped up by the anticipation. In simpler terms: Brian feels as his cock starts to get hard. Pat Gill doesn't stop smiling, and Brian could swear right now that one day Pat Gill would accidentally smile like that — and Brian would marry him.

Patrick sits down at the table in a careful, almost aristocratic way, picking up a fork and a spoon with two thin fingers of each hand.

"Bon appetite, Brian." He says, still keeping the smile. His eyes glisten as the flame of the candles sways away from his words. Zuko observes from his spot on top of the set of drawers in the living room. Brian swallows hard, picking up a shrimp with his fork. He looks up, and Patrick chuckles, staring at him with a predatory look on his face. Brian tries to remember everything, like, for example:

— lube: this exact table's drawer. Pat must be touching it's bottom with his skinny angular knees;

— ropes: his room, bedside table;

— cigarettes: his room, a shelf right next to the window.

His breathing gets harder, and shorter, and faster, he swallows again, looking at the full plate of pasta and thinking that maybe he'll see something there that saves him. Pat Gill, still smiling, picks some pasta with his fork and puts it right into his hot cigarette-scented mouth, sucking up the hanging ends of spaghetti with a loud slurp, sucking cheeks in while he does that, knowing perfectly well that Brian's attention is all his, and the boy is eagerly devouring the visual he gets, playing it on repeat in his head time and time again.

"How's your week been?" Pat asks, still rock-calm, raising his eyebrow and nodding Brian to start eating, too. There's a fucking lump in Brian's throat, making not only eating, but speaking hard for him. "Did you deliberately ignore me or—"

Brian's hands are now shaking from this anticipation, he bites the inside of his lower lip. He knows he's in trouble, and this knowledge makes his floral shirt feel hot and his jorts tight in certain places. Patrick Gill gets up, pulling out a hand to grab him by the chin, tightening the grip: "I'm talking to _you_ , Brian David Gilbert."

Fuck.

Fuck-fuck-fuck.

He whimpers in response: "I couldn't— Sorry, I'm a disaster. I'm just a horny disaster."

"You are," Patrick approves, stroking down the underside of his chin and slowly making his way to the boy's neck, while Brian has to fight the urge to shrug. Unexpectedly stern, Patrick's hand grabs his jaw so hard that it hurts from all the pressure, "You're just a whore, who just can't fucking handle their nasty thoughts, aren't you, baby boy?"

Brian feels his eyes widen to the limit of his capacity, it feels like he's a deer staring at the headights. Patrick lets him go and sits back down with the same undisturbed smile as before. Metallic frame of his glasses glistens when he cocks his head. "Why aren't you eating?"

"I— I do— I'm just—" Brian stutters, trying his best to pick up a fork, but it feels like it's been lathered — slipping right down from his fingers, crushing onto the floor, "Fuck—" He ducks to pick it up, and when he comes back up Patrick Gill is looming over him in his calm, quiet, almost angelic glory.

"I'm sorry?" Brian squeaks, knowing what comes next. Patrick Gill picks him up by the collar of the floral shirt, sending him flying towards the brick wall of the Nook and instantly pressing him into it with his own body. Pat's stare is full of this cold contained anger, bordering with hatred, and Brian is perfectly aware that he's the reason, and this thought makes Brian's soul red-hot, like a blast furnace. Patrick kisses him with such ferocity, that Brian hits his head against the wall, alarming Patrick that, maybe (just maybe), he should've been more careful, with a loud grunt. Sure, Brian can stand absolutely anything that Pat Gill would want to do with him, but sometimes (just sometimes) hitting one's head against hard surfaces doesn't go so well, and Brian is not really in the mood for safewording today. Yet. In response to such an elaborate warning, Pat Gill, not letting go of the collar of the floral shirt, wraps his palm around the back of Brian's head, stroking it gently and letting Brian to noticeably relax in his hands. The moment Brian _does_ relax though, the hand grabs onto his hair, forcefully pulling his head back, granting Patrick full access to his neck. Marks like these are hard to cover up, and, you know, Brian recognises the fact that this is probably fair, humming in excitement — Pat Gill's marks is one of the best things that happened to him in the year that has passed. 'Maybe I should've bought some concealer in Sephora near the office.' He thinks, as his body readily arches towards Patrick's lips and teeth.

One more bite (Brian almost screams in pain, digging his fingers deep into Patrick's wide straight shoulders) — and he half-lies-half-sits on the table — his legs hanging down and bended uncomfortably, his floral shirt pulled up, Patrick's strong fingers deliberately pushing down on his ribs while the other hand unbuttons the shirt. When the last button gives up to his actions, Patrick kisses him deeply, and Brian knows that this is some sort of a distraction, designed to keep his mind off the fact that Pat moves to the side slightly, and—

Brian whimpers into the kiss, biting onto Patrick's tongue, that's confidently exploring his mouth. Hot wax from the candle spreads on his stomach, and the tingling ache circles the skin in painful stripes. When the wax hardens, Patrick picks it up carefully, licking away the pain at the hurt spot, and his wet tongue makes everything around the burn turn hot, but amazingly tingly and nice, and Brian can't help but moan in satisfaction. The burn pulsates with the pain, Patrick chuckles cheerfully, looking at him from the waist-level. His hand slowly undoes the jorts' zipper — which is conveniently the only thing that Brian has left on his body after the shower — brushing up and down Brian's rock-hard boner with his steady (Brian's don't stand a fucking chance in comparison) fingers.

Brian lays his head back, breathing heavily. His glasses slide down from his forehead onto the table, and his hair cover his eyes: he trembles, squints and prays to all the gods he knows that Patrick wouldn't notice, because if Patrick _does_ notice, he's going to use that to his own advantage. To Brian's frustration, Patrick notices, brushing his hand from Brian's nose up — through his forehead and all the way to the back of his head, making him lift it up from the current position, propping it against Pat's palm. Long fingers pull curly hair at the back of his head into a tight knot, and Brian squints harder, but Pat knows, how to make him watch: wet smooth tip of his tongue ever so slightly rounds the tip of Brian's cock, teasing the slit, and. Brian's eyes are suddenly open, and he shuffles a bit to make it more comfortable for both of them.

"So eager," Pat smirks, and his breath veils Brian's dick like a piece of the thinnest chiffon one could get, "I could tease you all night. Could pour hot wax all over your beautiful hot cock—" The mere thought makes Brian clench his teeth, but his brain somehow doesn't want to recognise anything that Patrick says as something that's even slightly dangerous for his own body, "—I could pluck all the hair off of your scalp," Patrick continues, "And scorch that thin skin of yours. All the body at one go. Then I could fuck you so hard you would finally remember what happens, when you—"

"Oh, yes, daddy—" Brian gives up trying to hold it in, moaning and arching towards Pat's finger, massaging his dick. His leg is wrapped around Pat's arm which makes him look like he's one of those kebabs they all grew to love, working together. Pat doesn't mind, he just gives him this predatory smirk again, pulling the arm up, forcing Brian into embryo pose. He finally lets go of his hair, though, picking up the candle again — Brian watches, clearly quite interested in Pat's manipulations, frightened, but excited. The candle rises quite high above his abdomen, tilting slightly and— wax, breaking up into smaller drops, hits his chest. Brian wishes he had bought a smaller, thinner candle to give Pat more control over his actions, but alas. The wax hardens quickly, still making it quite far out on his chest in the form of a light-purple blackberry-scented puddle. He lets his head fall back, while the wax drips onto his chest, and bites onto his lower lip in an attempt to fight the urge to scream. Pat's fingers pick up the hardened shells, his tongue licking over the red spots carefully, and Brian's body feels like it's been covered with red fireflowers. "More, daddy, oh, please—" Brian begs in a hardly audible whisper, fiddling and struggling against Pat's strong hands. Suddenly everything's gone: he opens his eyes just to find himself alone in the Nook.

"Pat?" He calls into the silence of the room, not receiving any answer whatsoever. He shakes his head: he wasn't dreaming, was he? He looks down at his body, making sure that his burns and marks are still there— so where's Patrick? "Pat Gill?" His breath goes wild, he practically jumps up from the table, whimpering as the pain in his belly-region reaches his brain, as well as the uncomfortable feeling of incompleteness in his groin area. "Am I—" He stutters, making his way into the kitchen. The next moment he can't breathe, and Pat drags him into his bedroom, pulling onto a rope just tightly enough to give him this feeling of danger without actually doing him any harm. Having tossed Brian onto the bed, Patrick slams the door shut, quickly straddling the boy and pulling his legs apart, shuffling to sit in between them, and puts some sort of a bag behind his back. Brian wiggles, trying to see the contents, but Patrick bends over to face him so closely that his dark hair completely block the view. He has already taken his glasses off, and Brian gets into the mood for some rough fucking, even though he definitely prefers Patrick to be wearing glasses whenever.

"You thought I left, baby boy?" Pat breathes in his face, tugging onto Brian's hands, pulling them together above his head and tying them together in fast well-trained motion. "Maybe even— got scared?" Predatory smile comes back, making Brian fidget in anticipation but subconsciously get on with the plot, widening his eyes, biting onto his lip and responding with a series of short nods.

"I did think you've left me, daddy" He whines, trying to loosen the rope, that's pulling his hands together. His dick is pressing against the fabric of Pat's jeans right at the seam, which makes moving his bottom kind of painful, but still extremely pleasurable. "I thought— that I'd have to—" He sobs, getting into it more and more with every second. Brian. Fucking. Adores. Crying during sex. "—uh, I'd have to wait for the whole week againnmh—" He trails off into the moan, and Patrick shuffles again, moving so that he sits on Brian's abs. He picks up the candle from the bedside table, where Brian has providently put it — has he told you that he has lit all of them up, so now it's already full of hot melted wax? Patrick smirks, and, not breaking the eye contact, pours a better half of the wax onto Brian's solar plexus, making the boy whimper and arch his back in an attempt to escape Pat's grip. He puts the candle back, and, while one hand is picking up the pieces of quickly hardening wax, the other reaches back to find the bag and pull out a transparent ice cube. Brian is so turned on, he's afraid to even blink in order to not lose it completely, so the sight of the cube makes him bite his lip and whine, moving towards Patrick's hand. "Oh, yes, daddy, please—" he murmurs, feeling the cold air, surrounding the ice. When it finally touches his burnt skin, Brian's ready to scream until his lungs give up: his body is not ready for such a contrast. The ice, with the help of Pat's pointer finger that's pressing it into Brian's skin, writes out the eights on his chest until it's completely melted, leaving water trails down Brian's ribs and a puddle gathering in his bellybutton. The boy's abdomen is absolutely numb at this point, so he concentrates on his aching hands. Patrick moves down again, brushing against his pulsating dick, which makes him whimper loudly. The ropes slowly start to come loose, but the friction makes his hands ache, so Brian chooses to let this part of his body do its own thing, too, enjoying the thought of being a good boy and handling the pain for Patrick's pleasure. Patrick, in the meanwhile, sips the water out of his bellybutton with an audible slurp. Brian trembles and moans again, finding himself in the state of weird prostration — the hot tongue brings all the sensibility back to the skin of his belly, making his body feel like it's being subjected to electric current discharges of three hundred-odd volts.

"What a good boy you are," Patrick remarks, moving down and conveniently placing himself at Brian's knee-level, kissing up the inner side of Brian's thighs and looking up from his spot, smiling. Brian's shaking. He has deserved Patrick's praise, so now the only thing that keeps his body from completely shutting down is the need to have more, much, much more, "Standing it all just to please my ignorant self," Patrick continues, kissing the wet warm tip of Brian's dick. The boy cries quietly, not looking away from Patrick. "Teasing me with your moans." Patrick's voice breaks into a coarse whisper at the last part, giving out his lack of self-control remaining.

He grips Brian's hips tightly, pressing them into the mattress, for sure bruising the boy with too strong fingers of his, leaves a wet trail on his right thigh with his tongue, deliberately ignoring the most sensitive parts of Brian's body, licks the underside of the boy's cock, circles the tip, licking down the upper side, until his nose presses against the boy's curly fair hair. Brian smells of lemon meringue-scented shower gel — he has probably borrowed it from Laura, providing she has left for a whole week. Brian tries to pull himself up on his tied hands, and Patrick straightens up quickly, tightening the grip of one of his hands on Brian's thigh and taking hold of the boy's dick with another, starting to squeeze it, making Brian cry out in pain. "Where're you going, baby boy?"

"I-I—" Brian's cheeks are hot and red, and his chin is fucking _quaking_ , he sighs deeply, closing his eyes and trying to calm down. "I'm sorry, daddy." Patrick unclenches his hand, leaving only a ring of thumb and middle finger on his dick and slowly pushes it down to the very base.

"That's better." Brian hears, suddenly flashbacking to Patrick's flat the day they went to sex-shop together for the first time, and Pat picked out a bright-green cock-ring for him — to match Brian's favourite boxers — and let him try out the buy half an hour later.

Pat's hot mouth around his dick a few seconds later — Brian wonders if Patrick has noticed his breath getting even or — makes him come back to reality with a loud gasp. Patrick Gill takes him in and moves up, not missing the opportunity to suck his foreskin in harder, making Brian hold his breath and tangle his fingers in Pat's long black hair even more than they already are. Pat's cheeks at that moment suck in, letting Brian see sharp silhouettes of his cheekbones, red and trembling a bit, just as he goes back down, taking Brian deeper and deeper — until he reaches the point where he's taken Brian's full length, and the boy feels his tip brush against Pat's soft palate, bending his uvula, and can't hold the moan in anymore, pressing Pat's head down harder. There's an audible laugh and Pat raises his head, looking at Brian:

"Oh, baby boy, don't even think about that." He smirks, and Brian notices, not without satisfaction, the way Patrick's eyes light up after this sentence, as he moves up his body, moving Brian himself a bit upwards, letting him sit up a bit, putting a pillow underneath his lower back. He hisses as Patrick's jeans brush against burns, and Pat's face slips into a worried expression for a second, but a moment later he's already back in his cold-blooded character, repeating the movement as pulsating waves of paing cross Brian's skin as though it's water. Brian finds himself whimpering through gritted teeth and bitten lips:

"Daddy, please, can I—" Patrick unzips his jeans, and Brian's dick twitches in excitement. "Please-please-please-please—" His breathing fails as Pat's fingers pick up the band of his boxers, pulling them down to reveal his boner to Brian's eyes. The boy glares at it with a gluttonous expression on his face, licking his lips and almost pleading with all of his body. "Can I? Please, daddy?"

"Yeah, you can, baby boy." Patrick sanctions, moving closer, putting his hands onto the headboard of the bed to have more control. Brian has waited for this for so long, and now every single one of his metaphorical emergency breaks comes off as he gets to work with maybe even a little bit of an excessive fervour. Patrick's heavy palm covers his nape, petting him in the same way one would pet a cat when it lays down onto a sore, and then clenches into a fist, directing him and allowing him to take in more than he would ever be able to on his own in this position. Soon enough Patrick starts to quicken the pace, and Brian can't hold in the tears anymore, so his vision becomes all blurry. He moans loudly, hoping that this would warn Patrick and give him some self-control so that he lets Brian ride him at least for a bit, like—

Brian David Gilbert hasn't had sex for like a week, for fuck's sake, and he wants Patrick to fuck every hole in his body that fits, not only his fucking mouth!

Fortunately, Patrick is aware of that. Unfortunately, Patrick is aware of that: he pulls away, letting his palm brush against Brian's face, getting a satisfied moan in response, taking both of their dicks in his hand and jerking them off, extremely slowly at first, making sure to pay attention to every single sensitive spot of Brian's body that he has ignored before, such as:

— the inner side of his left thigh;

— his balls;

— a trail of hair down his stomach.

"Oh, God, yes, daddy, please!" Brian almost screams out of sheer frustration and satisfaction at the same time, he just absolutely _needs_ Patrick to quit all of that bullshit and just fucking _have him_ , fuck him dead for being so brave to ignore Patrick Gill's astonishingly gorgeous existence for an entire week! "Please, could you fu—"

He shuts his miserable mouth as Patrick glares at him in such a way that Brian doesn't ever want to speak anymore in his life after that. It feels like a whole eternity passes, which, in fact, barely equates to a minute, and Brian comes onto his aching stomach, and his hot sperm once again, just like Patrick's tongue, makes his body feel like it's been electrocuted, which layers onto the waves of orgasm, pushing their way through and making him arch his back. Patrick smirks and stops, licking a bit of come off of his abdomen. That's so filthy, that Brian watches him with blissful admiration as he smears white liquid all over his fingers, using it as the lube to finish himself off. He comes onto the bedsheets (and now, as every other time, Brian will have to fucking change it again, how long is he gonna deal with that?), as his skinny, but muscular body relaxes and tenses again and again in slow pulse; Brian watches every single muscle, every movement of Adam's apple, every flick of the lashes and, of course, the movement of the upper lip, rising up a bit in a satisfied smile. Pat Gill forces one of his eyes open and, still smiling, lics his finger, still covered in Brian's come. Then he makes a visible effort to open his second eye, and his coarse whispering fills the room: "Can I kiss you?"

Brian giggles: "Only when you fuck my ass."

Pat Gill smirks, gets up and picks up the pack of cigarettes, leaving the room.

/ / /

"Fuck me, Jenna, can you believe that?! I have fucking shingles!" On Monday Pat enters the break room only to stop in his tracks, finding Brian waving his hands wildly in front of confused Jenna.

"Bri, I'm sure that's just some sort of an allergic reaction, it cannot be so— oh." She pauses in the middle of the sentence, as Brian lifts his sweater up, letting her see the mess of big red spots and blisters of various sizes all over his stomach. "Maybe you _should_ see the doctor, after all." Her gaze stops at Patrick for a second, and it clearly reads: 'You're a fucking idiot, Pat Gill. You're both fucking idiots.'

"I already did! Apparently I need to sleep a lot more!"

"Oh, you _surely_ do, my darling," Jenna chuckles, finally continuing her way to the coolers, "You _absolutely_ fucking do, Gilbert." Still mischievously chuckling she pours herself a cup of water, drifting out of the break room with pure elegance, leaving Brian confused.

"What did you tell her?" Patrick just smirks in response, watching Jenna as she leaves, and smirks, making Brian silently swear to himself that he would never talk to those assholes ever again.


End file.
